By Walter Scott
One day last week, my son, Damon, called me at work and asked if I would get an owl decoy for him while I was in town. “Sure,” I said just assuming every store in town carried plastic owls. The search was not as easy as I expected. The sporting goods store was fresh out. The hardware store would not be getting more until spring. By the time I got to the last farm supply store I asked, “Do you have any owls?” By this time I was thinking they would know exactly what I was talking about, since I had already discussed it with everyone else in town. The clerk gave me a rather quizzical look while glancing about for an escape route in case I became violent. I quickly clarified my request explaining I wanted a plastic owl decoy. She seemed relieved and I bought what I think is the last owl in town.
When I met up with Damon that evening, he explained he had discovered a new sport, crow hunting. I hated to break it to him, though crow hunting was new to him, it was by far from a new shooting sport.
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